Poems by Members - page 1

Progression Towards Confession

When the ascent of Man began, the monkey became an also ran 
As man invented things to provide his fun 
And it really was a shame about the monkey's little brain 
Because he never learned to suck smoke into his lungs 

And he did not seem to care if his mate didn't have blonde hair 
And she was not gullible enough for fashion 
So she didn't rant and rave for silicone implants 
Because environmentally friendly was their ration. 

ex "The Light of Day"

George Knight

Wild Peony


   Nowhere but here, 
   sheltered in limestone clefts 
   among the crags of Steepholm, 
   this relic of a monastic past survives.
   For centuries it has renewed 
   its ancient lineage and every year 
   in crimson robes of state 
   and with a stamen crown of gold, 
   asserts a precedence and regal power.

   While on the Severn shore 
   common members of the kingdom 
   thrive in their workaday way.
   Dull glasswort and ordinary fescue 
   spread their roots in estuary mud.
   Only on the contoured sand-banks 
   a few colonies of anchored marram grass 
   face the island dome across the river flow 
   and bow their heads in the prevailing wind.

Brian Biddle

This poem has recently been published in an anthology of 100 Island Poems edited by James Knox Whittet and published by Iron Press (www.ironpress.co.uk). It surveys the islands of Great Britain and Ireland in poems by modern poets including John Betjeman, Eavan Boland, Seamus Heaney, Michael Longley. The poems are in a variety of voices and styles and each is accompanied by a map.

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Waiting for Mother

Peering out of the frosted, muggy window
Onto the bleak, grey, misty concrete path
Anxiously awaiting the presence of that heavenly face,
When will I hear her soft, delicate footsteps approach?
My childhood spirit paused in silent eternity,
Waiting for her return so that I could feel safety once more.

The longing to see her stand by her dressing room mirror,
Amongst the candy coloured array,
Pink lipstick, the scent of roses,
Ponds cream for her soft, virginal hands,
Shades to make her coffee cream skin
Shine like the purity of an angel.

Her lilac, spiralled knitting,
Resting gently on her embroidered cushion,
The minutes like hours and the hours like days,
A picture frozen in time, perched on that window sill,
Feelings of emptiness and nothingness
Waiting for her loving smile to return.

Sudden pounding excitement and expressions of joy,
A vision of her distant emerging silhouette
Armed with brightly coloured bags, lace, bangles and toys.
Her incandescent smile, radiating colour once again,
Stories of the day and her short escape,
All I can whisper is, ‘Please don’t ever go away’.

Today, as I stand by that glazed window,
Peering out, watching the world pass by,
Amongst the fumes and fog and silver sprayed machines,
People marching in a workaholic daze,
I still wait to hear that softly spoken voice,
But her returns are now no more.

Ravina Ryder

Pub. In “A Woman’s World” (Anchor Books)

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All Goats Munch

(in response to the theme for the evening following the A.G.M., 2002)

All Goats Munch –
But these goats munch the most,
As leading lunch-time munchers
They can quickly make a ghost
Of thistles, pies or toast!
They’ll munch on breakfast fry-ups,
They’ll munch on Sunday roasts,
They’ll even munch on ladies’ hats
Or fancy petticoats!

And though –
They do not wish to boast,
As super munchy crunchers,
As leading lunch-time munchers,
These goats munch the most!

John Cotton

(Sadly, John, our President for many years, died in March 2003)